Slipping Through my Fingers
by Mei Hitokiri
Summary: After his brother's death, Mycroft struggles to cope. The only question is, just how far will he fall? [WARNING! Massively adult themes, and potential triggers for alcoholism and the associated conditions.]


**Slipping Through my Fingers**

There comes a point in everybody's life when there is no turning back. This was true for even the greatest of men. There was only so much one person could do to prevent it from happening, but in the end everybody reached their limit. Even Mycroft Holmes.

All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring was not an advantage. He had tried to protect himself, but how could he, really? Sherlock was all he knew. The only other being that had ever understood him. The only other being he had ever loved. Reduced to a sullied name smeared on a pavement.

He had started drinking excessively aged eighteen; from the night he had told Sherlock that he was leaving for University. Aged twenty-two he had gotten clean, and with that one Christmas put aside he had stayed that way. It had been Sherlock again that had sent him into relapse. The image of his brother's broken, bloodied, beaten body seared his skull every time he breathed. He was expected to sit through meetings every day and make decisions that would change the world, knowing that nothing would bring back the little boy he'd protected with his life. The alcohol had been his only way out. It numbed it all; allowed his mind to function without the constant reminders that he was human.

* * *

His hands were beginning to shake as he walked to his office; he'd had a drink with breakfast, but that had been just over an hour ago. Even so, he kept himself calm and aloof. Nobody could know of this weakness. Just imagine the chaos the country would descend into if its every enemy discovered that the man running it was alcohol dependent. His job came first, no matter how fast his body was decaying.

At his desk he poured himself three fingers of whiskey, and sipped it slowly - he might as well enjoy the poison. Anthea arrived five minutes later (She was always prompt, for which he was grateful. It gave him time to hide the alcohol.) with the required documents. A COBRA meeting at nine to discuss the situation in Syria, the Iranian ambassador at eleven and a video-linked NATO conference at two. Resigning himself, he began to read through the latest intelligence debrief from Aleppo.

* * *

Seated at the head of the table in Downing Street, Mycroft let the conversation wash over him. Whilst he couldn't drink this early in company, he wasn't yet feeling the withdrawal. His hands were laid flat on the table, a pen and a glass of water next to him. As one of the shadow ministers enquired about the use of biochemical retaliation – stupid, it would kill more civilians than troops because of the water shortages – his pen went clattering to the floor. All eyes turned to look at Mycroft; a man so careful to never draw attention to himself.

"Apologies, do continue." He bent to pick it up and set it back on the table. Less than a minute later it was back on the floor again. Scowling internally, he picked the pen back up and set it away from his hands.

It was the glass that went next, though this time he was watching. The spasm (unfelt, that was unusual) started in his bicep and ran down the length of his right arm until the whole limb twitched. The French-cut crystal tipped sideways, water sluicing over the oak table, and rolled onto the floor with a delicate crash. Splinters of the vessel lay in a vague circle on the floor, the room utterly silent.

"Mr Holmes, are you quite alright?" It was the Prime Minister that broke the tense silence.

"Yes, thank you. I caught my ulna nerve." He touched the spot just behind his elbow that was known for causing muscle spasms when knocked, and offered a small false smile. Several men along the table nodded and murmured agreement.

As the meeting got back underway, Mycroft slid out of his chair to retrieve the fragments of the glass from the floor. It was a distraction from the banal discussion if nothing else. With the efficiency he was known for he cleared the mess and set it on the sideboard, pouring himself a new glass and taking a sip.

"What do you think, Mr Holmes? Is it possible for them to actually have the weapons they claim?" Mycroft licked his lips as he sat down.

"It's a potential we cannot dismiss." He coughed softly, covering his mouth. "The threat is enough to remind people of the Iraqi conflict, which means we must either take swift action or leave the Americans to their mistakes." There was some scattered laughter, and during the pause the man seated to his left – ex Special Forces of some sort, judging by the stain on the inside of his left thumb – offered him a handkerchief. "I'm fine, thank you." He dismissed it with a small wave of his hand.

"No, sir, not for your cough. For your hand." Mycroft frowned and looked to his right hand. An open cut on his palm bled freely; indeed, his blood stained the glass he had carried to the table and the back of his left hand where he had laced them together.

"Oh, of course. Thank you." Accepting the handkerchief (a cheap cotton one, so he didn't feel quite as guilty) he touched it to the wound. No sensation registered, and he pursed his lips, continuing to clean out the cut.

* * *

The meeting overran, as usual, and he finally left Number 10 at twenty-to eleven. In the back of his car he fished out the carefully concealed hip flask; glad to register the smooth coldness of the metal in his right hand. Drinking gratefully, he set it back and examined the cut. Shock was preventing sensation, he told himself, as he slid out, though even that sounded weak.

The Iranian ambassador was seated in his waiting room when he arrived, and Mycroft ushered him into his office. Taking a seat he made sure to set his hands where he couldn't knock things off the desk. As soon as he was settled the ambassador launched into an obviously pre-rehearsed and memorised speech about the situation in Libya. Unable to concentrate fully, the words swam in and out of focus. Clenching his toes in an attempt to return his attention to the conversation, Mycroft spent a moment feeling utterly disorientated. The ambassador finished his speech. The room was silent for a minute, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the far left corner. It would need winding again soon, he could tell.

As the silence dragged on, Mycroft couldn't help but wonder something.  
"I'm sorry ambassador, but haven't we already discussed this once today?" The ambassador looked like he had suggested something utterly disgraceful.  
"Mr Holmes, I don't know what you're playing at, but I will not fall for any of your mind games; you can be assured of this." Fighting to keep his expression neutral, he ran through the events of the morning. He had definitely already discussed this, so why would the ambassador lie about it?  
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir. We have had this conversation already, have we not? If you had had any further questions at the time I would have answered them there and then; there was no need to book a second appointment." There was a tense silence that seemed to permeate the room and choke the breath from him. He coughed, though when he covered his mouth he couldn't feel anything in his fingers.

"Mr Holmes. I should rather hope this isn't one of your tricks, but I believe you are confusing me with somebody else."

Confused; yes, that was the word. Mycroft was confused. He had come into his office and had a drink, and then Anthea had given him the reports on Aleppo. Following that he had gotten in his car and gone… had gone… He closed his eyes and touched his fingers to his temples. He had gone to the COBRA meeting and cut his hand. Of course, it was all so obvious now.

"I do apologise, ambassador. I was up until the small hours talking to a colleague in Australia and I'm afraid the lack of sleep must be catching up with me. I believe I can assist you in some small way with your issues, but there will of course be a deal that needs to be negotiated."

* * *

"Lunch, sir?" Anthea stood in the doorway with a tray of freshly prepared food. A tuna pasta salad, fresh fruit, a slice of coffee and walnut cake; his mouth watered appreciatively.

"No thank you, Anthea." Mycroft carried on making annotations in the margin of the file he was reading. Noting that he'd made the same point twice he erased it. He'd been doing things like that a lot lately, so had taken to drafting in pencil before copying out or going over in ink. Stepping inside the office, Anthea closed the door and set the tray down.

"Sir, you really need to eat. I know for a fact that you didn't have breakfast, and you've had to tighten your belt an extra two notches over the past few months." Mycroft shook his head.

"I am not hungry, thank you." His stomach growled loudly.

"You are. Please sir, eat something."

Sighing loudly, Mycroft set down his pencil and carefully placed the file to one side. He picked up the fork and took a mouthful of the salad. He chewed it thoroughly, conscious of Anthea's gaze upon him. When he swallowed he physically couldn't keep the grimace from his face.

"Are you alright sir?" Mycroft tried a second and third time to swallow down the food, only managing to do so when a glass of water was pressed into his hand. It was only because he was looking at it that he managed to grasp it; his reflexes slow and the sensation non-existent. Since the COBRA meeting a month or so back he had been rapidly losing sensation in his right arm and leg, though he thought nothing of it. So long as he could work, and showed no sign of weakness, physical discomfort meant nothing.

"I'm fine, thank you." Anthea didn't move.

"No, you're not." Mycroft looked up at her in shock. Never before had she spoken to him like this. "Sir, it is my job to protect you and it is quite plain that something is wrong. What is going on?" She wouldn't let this drop until he placated her; that much was obvious.

"I have been having difficulty swallowing solid foods for some time. I believe it is merely a lingering throat infection, nothing to worry about." It didn't surprise him when the salad was replaced with a bowl of minestrone soup, the fruit with a melon purée and the cake with a small tub of ice cream.

* * *

It was four months since then, and Anthea had been watching him even more closely. Whilst he had not regained the lost weight, he had not lost any more in that period which seemed to keep her relatively happy.

"What have I got on today?" She gave him an odd look, but checked her BlackBerry. Recently, Mycroft had been forgetting more and more; appointments and their purposes on a regular basis. Names and faces took longer to recall, if at all, and it seemed some days that he just couldn't remember anything since… well, that incident wasn't mentioned.

"Just the one meeting sir; midday, with the Prime Minister. He would like to discuss plans for the Olympic aftermath." Mycroft nodded and checked his watch.

"Have the car ready for half past eleven, if you would." Anthea nodded and withdrew, closing the door behind her. Mycroft unlocked his drinks cabinet and poured himself a small glass of port. For the road.

* * *

"So you can see where I'm coming from, right Holmes? I need to keep this flame burning – for the people, though I doubt it would do any harm to my re-election campaign." Mycroft valiantly fought the urge to roll his eyes. Politicians were all the same; they couldn't keep the cheesy clichés to their speeches, it permeated into everything they did.

"Of course. Personally, I think it would be advantageous to…" Mycroft stopped suddenly and placed a hand over his mouth. There was a bitter taste at the back of his throat, burning fiercely. It only took a second for him to place the sensation, but by then his stomach was roiling. "If you'd excuse me." He all but sprinted out the room, shoving people out of the way to reach the bathroom. Kneeling over the toilet he emptied the contents of his stomach in a series of wracking heaves. Even then, his stomach and oesophagus still spasmed until he was merely bringing up bile and blood.

Strong, steady hands hauled him to his feet and wiped the vomit from his chin. Distantly, he heard someone telling them to take him home and ensure he was given fluids, but it barely registered.

* * *

Mycroft refused to see a doctor about what had happened, and instead favoured the ignorant approach. His nausea was a constant background nuisance, and the loss of sensation in his right limbs now permanent. There were other things too; his memory had gotten worse, it hurt more to swallow than ever, and his vision was blurred and often took a long while to focus. His thoughts would become disjointed at times, and he would confuse himself. But he had learned to cope, and that was enough.

A knock at the door and it swung open with purpose, a messenger in the Queen's livery standing next to Anthea. The messenger snapped to attention.  
"Sir, Her Royal Highness requests that you give this matter your immediate attention." Mycroft stood and held his hand out. The messenger placed a thick, high-quality cream envelope into his hand, sealed with red wax and stamped with the Royal seal. Taking the letter opener off his desk, Mycroft slid it neatly underneath the seal and removed the letter. The paper was of the same thickness, colour and quality as the envelope. The letter itself had been penned by hand with a _**Schaffer**_ fountain pen, filled from an inkwell with Italian ink. It must have been important, if the Queen had written it personally. Staring at the page Mycroft tried to make sense of the words, but they wouldn't focus. He looked to his desk as if to reaffirm that fact and then back to the paper. He could see the words, but they failed to make sense; each individual curve registering but not computing. He fought to keep the panic off his face, and he reached instinctively for his pocket – for his hip flask.

"Sir?" Mycroft looked up to the messenger. "Her Highness requested that I return your response immediately and in person." Nodding slowly and reaching for his pen in an attempt to buy himself some more time, Mycroft's left hand started to shake.

"If you would wait outside, please. There is a matter I wish to discuss with Mr Holmes." The messenger inclined his head and stepped out, shutting the door. Anthea approached and took the paper from Mycroft's hand. "Sir. I think you ought to go home." Mycroft waved her off with a dismissive gesture.

"I'm fine, don't be absurd." He moved around the desk to take paper from one of his drawers.

"Mycroft." He turned to stare at her. Never before had Anthea called him by his forename; it just wasn't done in the environment they worked in. "Something is wrong. I can't make you see a doctor, but I can put in a vote of no confidence if I think you are too unwell to continue your work." Mycroft bristled and squared his shoulders. "No, don't. I don't wish to do that, but you are clearly not recovered from whatever it was that caused the incident at Downing Street. Take some time off before you kill yourself, please."

* * *

He hadn't really had much choice, which is why he found himself at home staring at the photograph in his hands. He was sixteen, Sherlock eleven, and it had been of one Mummy's annual summer galas. They were the height of the social calendar, as she regularly reminded them, and they were expected to be the perfect gentlemen; even at that age. Dressed in immaculate tuxedos and bow-ties, they had been called into the rose garden for formal photographs. One hand on Sherlock's shoulder – his little brother's long curls brushing over his knuckles – and the other in his pocket he had smiled at the camera. It was only after the picture had been taken that he had realised Sherlock had been staring up at him, offering a rose to his older brother. He smiled fondly at the memory, making a mental note to badger Sherlock into attending this years' with him. The smile faltered and disappeared completely as he remembered Sherlock could no longer attend anything with him.

Sipping from the glass of Merlot, he walked back to the table at the bottom of the stairs and replaced the photograph beside the glass vase that held a single rose. Kissing his fingers he touched them to the picture of the boy. So young, so innocent.

Trying to hold onto the memory, he retired to his study. The open notepad on the desk reminded him what he had been doing before he'd been forced to go to bed the night before. Ignoring the stomach cramps from not eating, he stared over the note he'd written to himself. Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome, coupled with alcoholic neuropathy. He sighed and looked to his empty glass. Standing, he went to see if there was anything left in the bottle.

* * *

Three months on and, if anything, his condition was worsening. The cramps that had originated in his stomach from hunger had spread to his arms and legs, making movement painful and, at times, impossible. He could no longer ingest anything solid; having to blend the few meals he remembered to eat.

Passing the picture at the bottom of the stairs after a particularly agonising descent, he paused and frowned. He continued his path to the study and booted up his laptop. Logging on, he loaded the CCTV system and located the Baker Street feed. The cameras situated around the house were exactly where he expected them to be, excluding the one in the kitchen that Sherlock had destroyed unwittingly during one of his more volatile experiments. Doctor Watson was sat in his usual seat, staring blankly at the wall opposite. Mycroft frowned and pulled out his mobile. He had been rather neglectful as of late in checking up on his 'colleagues'.

"Gregory?" There was silence on the end of the line. "You have answered the phone, knowing whom it was that was calling you, so you might as well talk to me." A sigh.

"Yes, ok. What do you want?" Mycroft scowled. There was only one thing he ever called about.

"I am calling about my brother." There was silence again.

"You don't deserve to mention his name, after what you did." Pressing his fingers to his temple, Mycroft struggled to recall what he'd done. There had been the incident with Nelson's Column, and the argument about access to some restricted material only a week ago.

"Gregory, I would have thought a man such as yourself would understand why I had to refuse Sherlock access to official records. The incident was over a week ago now, and I would have thought he would have finished sulking by now." There was a stunned silence.

"Look, Mycroft I've got no idea what the hell you're on about. If something's happened, John would be the man to know about it. He doesn't talk to me anymore."

"Oh. Well, I hope that shall be rectified. It would be unfortunate if your disagreement with Doctor Watson impinged on Sherlock's ability to take on cases; you know how fond he is of his assistant." He hung up and looked back to the CCTV feed. Nothing had changed.

"Doctor Watson?"

"What the fuck made you think I ever wanted to hear from you again?!" The venom in those words gave Mycroft pause.

"Doctor Watson, I'm sure I don't know what you're on about. I wished to ask if you knew where my brother is." The line went silent for so long that he began to think John had hung up.

"What the fuck are you playing at, Mycroft?" The words were quiet. "You know as well as I do where he-" This time John tailed off into a sob and the line went dead. Mycroft glared at his phone; of course he didn't know where Sherlock was, his brother never told him anything. In fact, they hadn't spoken since Sherlock had called him a selfish arse for refusing him access. Pinching the bridge of his nose he dialled Sherlock's number.

"The number you have called is no longer available. Please check you have dialled the correct number and try again." The mechanically recorded voice intoned.

Taking the stairs as quickly as he could, Mycroft staggered into his bedroom. The cramps were spreading further; intensifying horrifically in his legs and now clutching at his chest. He pushed the pain to one side, trying to find the records of his last conversation with Sherlock. Removing the folder he opened it to the last entry; 15th January 2012. He frowned, wondering why he hadn't updated the folder in nearly three years given Sherlock's recent escapades. The front page headline hit him so hard it left him winded and gasping for breath.

**Suicide of Fake Genius**

Scrambling out of the room and away from the folder he pulled himself up on the bannister of the staircase. Dead. Sherlock was dead. Sherlock had been dead for three years, and he had forgotten. His head spinning he started down the stairs, desperately in need of a drink. As he stumbled down the third step a crippling pain sent his left leg into spasm. Unable to hold his weight, his knee buckled and Mycroft fell headfirst down the stairs.

Landing at the bottom in a crumpled heap, he felt his chest constrict with the force of impact. His muscles continued to spasm and contract; spreading from his leg up through his body until he was fitting on the floor. With monumental effort he dragged himself to the table. In one of the more violent spasms his arm knocked the leg of the table, sending it crashing down next to him. Uncaring, Mycroft reached for the photograph.

* * *

The soft scratching at the door to Mycroft's flat went completely unnoticed, for which Sherlock was glad. To be caught picking the lock on his brother's door was hardly the reunion he had intended. The smell hit him first, like walking onto a hospital ward. Sickly sweet and utterly out of place in Mycroft's pristine flat.

The second thing he noticed was the countless empty bottles, decanters and glasses around the kitchen and living room. Breathing apologies to his brother that his absence should have caused a relapse, he set about clearing them out. If Mycroft were asleep in a drunken stupor he wouldn't wake for anything so noise was no issue. Shrugging off his coat, he rounded the corridor with the intention of checking the study. It was, after all, his brother's sanctuary. Sherlock stopped dead.

Mycroft lay at the bottom of the stairs, body contorted into an unnatural position from where he'd been fitting. His head, face up, was surrounded by a pool of congealed and dried vomit; his mouth still full of the substance that he'd choked and suffocated on as he had fitted. His eyes were open but unseeing, his body perfectly still. Sherlock didn't need to look to know that the glass would be cracked on the photograph his brother gripped in his right hand.


End file.
